“I do not doubt the Signorina,” said Gaspare. “But I thought it was my duty to tell you what I thought, Signora. Why should people come here saying they are of my country, saying they are Sicilians, and talking as the Neapolitans talk?”
“Well, but at the time, you didn’t doubt that boy was what he said he was, did you?”
“Signora, I did not know. I could not know. But since then I have been thinking.”
“Well, Gaspare, you are quite right to tell me. I prefer that. I have much faith in you, and always shall have. But we must not say anything like this to the Signorina. She would not understand what we meant.”
“No, Signora. The Signorina is too good.”
“She would not understand, and I think she would be hurt”—Hermione used the word “offesa,”—“as you would be if you fancied I thought something strange about you.”
“Si, Signora.”
“Good-night, Gaspare.”
“Good-night, Signora. Buon riposo.”
He moved towards the door. When he reached it he stopped and added: